Story Thought Unthinkable

Story Thought Unthinkable
© Surazeus
2025 05 21

Though I have not lived very long on Earth 
I know everything that does not exist 
because I read about them in the Book, 
constructed from feathery bones of birds, 
which bleeds oil from my eyes at speed of light 
despite how deep I dive in sea of faith. 

All good intentions of my argument, 
revived from hollow flux of cracking stones, 
provide new framework for hard reckoning 
when I dispute the obvious state of things 
with perverse notions of important facts 
based on excited sweepings of regret. 

Indoctrinated by ripe fruit of lust 
that blooms with weighty opulence of hope, 
I note how fast time vanishes in thought 
describing fevered passion of fake art 
contrived to veil raw wounds of bitter hate 
with satisfaction of my random whims. 

Time jails accomplice of my fearless heart 
with mute abandonment of tattered jokes 
too late to check expansive pertinence 
with honest aspects I could not discern 
before morale may decimate our ranks 
each time I laugh at how trees seem to dance. 

I know the story thought unthinkable 
according to despair of brazen gates 
that might record surprising victory 
which I achieve with confidence of fate 
when I research elaborate assent 
with force of my insatiable respect. 

Ascendance on celestial planisphere 
against the common cause of global laws 
provides regressive undulance of truth 
which music counteracts with relevance 
for patience of exploding stars we lose 
when ships sink howling in the brutal sea. 

No words illuminate so well as those 
I steal from fractured legends of dead gods, 
who rage against machinery of delight, 
our secret business to replace grand tales 
with sullen heroes taught by suffering 
for humble memory of gigantic ghosts. 

They scatter scent of hazel in green rain 
when all their children on the road ahead 
evade clear presence of their unlocked doors, 
forgotten by the blind librarian 
who reads old news to ravens on bare shelves 
since we leave treasures of our dreams in books. 

Tiresias In Cave Of Dreams

Tiresias In Cave Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2025 05 21

When I follow the hawk to the waste land, 
where thousands of visionaries have gone 
to find Tiresias in Cave of Dreams, 
I discover buried in sands of time 
true Lyre of Mercury by Well of Odin 
where mermaid bones gleam in the blazing sun. 

Now millions of children with broken phones, 
who want to sing with bold prophetic voice, 
follow the Piped Piper of Avalon, 
while I sit by the Burning Bush of Faith 
high on desolate slopes of Mount Takoma 
and strum the Lyre of Mercury with rapture. 

From Temple of Apollo on the summit 
I see lost children of the fallen empire 
crawl among tangled weeds of Wonderland 
to find the secret Key of Vatic Wisdom 
while lusty Fame chooses with magic wand 
the most glamorous poets as acolytes. 

Dressed in fancy robes of commercial glamor, 
they follow Fame in prestigious parade, 
climbing bowed heads on Stairs of Legacy 
before the crowd that clamors to join in, 
and feast on cakes of sugar-coated praise 
in glittering mirrored Hall of Narcissus. 

Escaping glamorous Court of the Word King 
where the Favored Ones network to gain power, 
I leave grand Castle of the Holy Book, 
past marble idols of the Famous Seers, 
and tread Invisible Trail of the Truth 
to secret cave where Tiresias dwells. 

Sitting on lotus flower in pool of tears, 
I meditate by chanting spell of light 
while Tiresias gathers lightning sphere 
to channel cosmic energy of truth 
and generates virtual model of Earth 
that chronicles whole human history. 

From spirit egg that flashes divine light 
enormous gods composed of human souls 
emerge as characters of epic tales 
whose masks embody social energies 
to perform roles in dramatic events 
in culture clash between conceptual gods. 

Humans embody social energies 
to replay ancient dramas for control 
through clash of Titans in the cosmic war 
that Jupiter and Jesus ever wage 
between democracy and tyranny 
till we die and leave the stage for new gods. 

Choosing Our Own Fate

Choosing Our Own Fate
© Surazeus
2025 05 21

I try to focus on the little things 
adjusted carefully in each glass case 
in the Great American Museum 
of Domestic Tranquility to showcase 
my privileged place in story of our state 
defined by the random choices of fate. 

While eating orange I stole from Tree of Life, 
I lounge in park among wind-rustled leaves 
beneath tall statue of William the Silent 
to honor independence of the mind 
from all controlling tyrants of the state 
who dare think they can legislate our fate. 

I mean to tell about my life at home 
with solemn voice of the brave mocking bird, 
but my heart sprouts wings and will tend to roam 
across the ancient landscape of the Earth 
where people fight to establish the state 
so they can pretend they control their fate. 

The fact that I am related to both 
General Robert Edward Lee and John Brown 
defines ambiguous nature of being 
programming cultural code of my mind 
which operates how I function in my state 
though I swim against empire tides of fate. 

If I analyze my relationships 
with my family through quaint fairy tales 
I might present in well-masked characters 
ancient forces of social theater 
which form foundation of our global state 
while I perform roles that defy my fate. 

Or I could satirize with timeless gods 
contemporary leaders of vast nations 
who wrestle that angel whom Israel fought 
to balance freedom of the individual 
with public interest of the faceless state 
by enforcing laws that equalize fate. 

Though I attempt to fictionalize my life 
in tradition of college writers workshops, 
instead I sing about global events 
in tradition of wandering troubadours 
to record chronicles of the world state 
which moralize weird principles of fate. 

This face-mask from the ancient gallery, 
I wear while chanting arcane prophecies, 
reflects the psychic mind of Everyman 
through mirror of the television screen 
to rationalize blind functions of the state 
that we enforce by choosing our own fate. 

Record Another Testament

Record Another Testament
© Surazeus
2025 05 20

Everywhere I go in my daily life 
I sense the Universe is watching me, 
so I act like the star of my own show, 
controlling everything I say and do, 
but nothing ever results, so I laugh 
and make weird faces at the empty sky. 

Every afternoon I walk to the street 
and check the mailbox of my hungry heart 
to see if the holy angels of God 
have sent me letters that explain the Why, 
but all I get are brochures, store coupons, 
and applications for bank credit cards. 

I hold the sacred language of the world 
that squirms in my hand with ocean-wet scales 
and stares at me with gold demonic eyes, 
so I explain my sorrow to Moon Witch 
who teaches me to translate songs of waves 
to tangled sentences no one comprehends. 

With hands I measure objects that exist 
to find familiar spirit of the wind 
constrained by clustered forms of ecstasy 
which vibrates buzz of passion from my bones 
when I dance with irregular respect 
on stage of the sea-desert in the void. 

Through startled jaggedness of secret codes 
I improvise the reason we exist 
from whispered colors of the singing sand 
that flow in wrinkled tides of ardency 
despite how fast trees crack all parking lots 
to free our brains from knowledge of the book. 

Though I go everywhere freely on Earth 
I can never go back where I came from, 
for I must always loop the spiral road 
forth into swirling mists of Avalon 
where I record another testament 
that represents the Ungod of my brain. 

Your story enters my heart at your touch 
so I carry burden of your mute joy 
entrapped in charcoal cavern of my heart, 
yet I assert respectful narrative 
contrived by fairies of the weeping tree 
to soothe shared hurt with prayers of honesty. 

If we perform our predetermined roles 
on crowded stage of social fantasy, 
we might not make it home on time to watch 
election of the poet laureate 
who chants the fatal elegy of love 
that records the fall of America. 

Often Mistaken For God

Often Mistaken For God
© Surazeus
2025 05 20

That dying star that no angel can see, 
which travels both directions beyond light, 
sprinkles snow flakes of religious desire 
on faces of the faithful by the lake 
where their prophet who tried to walk on water 
has not yet emerged from abyss of time. 

As I stand on broken edge of the world 
ready to dive into abyss of time, 
I wonder if I should be sore afraid 
of swimming in the ocean of my mind 
to find the luminous soul of my heart 
that I have often mistaken for God. 

Should I surrender wisdom of my faith 
to swim in infinite flow of desire, 
then I would feel light of that dying star 
glow in each neuron of my dreaming brain 
so I speak with voice of the oracle 
from the model of Delphi in my yard. 

The Goddess with one hundred billion eyes, 
who created this world of swirling souls, 
teaches me how to speak of what I see 
so she can know if anything is real, 
yet I keep singing visions of my mind 
long after she melts as snow into flowers. 

Each sentiment of beauty I perceive 
can never quench thirst of desire to know 
divine concept of the right character 
who gives me oranges from the tree of faith 
that flash diamond flames in eggs of my eyes 
so I record secret names of the dead. 

We cannot rightly bifurcate the truth 
by twisting wings of sorrow from god skulls, 
yet we can dance with the divinely dead 
whose faces smile from photos on the wall 
when I decide each day which mask to wear 
in sacred role of prophet no one hears. 

Rewinding details of ideal concepts 
from fracture of space collapsed into words, 
I hold up the sky with keyboard of dreams 
to program how the Earth perceives itself 
through myths of fate in television shows 
that lonely people sing about in church. 

The dying star that flashes back and forth 
replaces concept of my world with code 
translating visions into fairy tales 
that parents read their children as they die 
whose luminous souls float in the night sky 
that I have often mistaken for God. 

Faceless God Of Truth

Faceless God Of Truth
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

I need some sit-and-stare-at-the-wall time, 
so I sit on the couch of meditation 
and stare at the wall above the fireplace, 
but not even one minute ticks away 
before I see grand vision of the world 
which I assemble from puzzle of dreams. 

Before my grand vision evaporates 
I dip tip of the brush in bowl of paint 
and draw baseline of truth across the sky 
to frame vast emptiness of everything 
within enclosing bounds of time and space 
to formulate state of things that exist. 

Emerging from nothing of the white wall, 
grand vision of the world blooms into shape 
as field of shadows that reflect ideas 
designed as patterns which objectify 
swirls of material atoms into forms 
which my brain may categorize with words. 

Abrupt expression of ethereal breath 
in gust of wind that blows from mountain peak 
reframes constituent elements of faith 
by scattering puzzle pieces of my mind 
that flutter into butterflies of faith 
which name each human soul born from the sea. 

The old storyteller with oaken cane 
shambles across desolate field of weeds, 
searching for the cafe among clean shops 
where he used to drink coffee and write poems 
that vanished when planes with angelic wings 
bombed his world into rubble of despair. 

Sitting on tattered couch of sad nostalgia, 
the old storyteller stares at the sky 
where ghosts of ancient heroes float as clouds 
till he crumbles into the soil of silence 
while millions of people across the land 
watch history tales on television screens. 

I stare so long at the masks of dead heroes 
that hang on the wall of my empty house 
that I become the faceless god of truth 
awake in every human brain on Earth 
who clash in world wars over who plays god 
till we become fairy tales in lost books. 

Sitting in the Wingless Angel Cafe, 
between the bank and the church on Main Street, 
I draw the face of every human being 
who ever existed in dream of Earth, 
then throw Book of Souls in River of Time 
so I can stare at the blank wall of truth. 

Desire To Generate Souls

Desire To Generate Souls
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

Because the whole sky fits inside my skull, 
I wake in darkness of the everywhere 
to find I am small as the apple seed 
which blooms vast as our swirling galaxy 
that flashes melodies of rain-sparked words 
through undulating matrix of my brain. 

The airplane gliding across empty sky 
takes me to the past where I should not be 
because I get there faster in winged flight 
than if I walk on foot across the land, 
so I fold my soul in page of the book 
that records each forgotten genocide. 

Love motivates each action of my hands 
to build beauty from random elements 
that guard your embodied spirit from harm 
so you can savor pleasure of this life 
in moments of togetherness we share 
that fuels our desire to generate souls. 

When I look for God in dream of the world 
to understand nature of energy, 
I feel conscious sense of my Self expand 
beyond enclosing bounds of my soul frame 
so I become God I am looking for 
that vibrates love in every human soul. 

I am illusion of my pulsing brain 
that feels itself awake inside my skull 
as atoms flashing bright in chemicals 
which conjure virtual model of the world 
through vision of my whole ontology 
that defines structure of our universe. 

Before beginning of my sense of self 
that speaks dream spells in breath of honest hope 
I touch weird image of my secret face 
reflected in bright mirror of the pool, 
and wonder from what stone of time I spring 
through fierce compassion of the angel wing. 

Through every conscious choice of faith I make 
based on clear vision my brain formulates, 
I calculate strict progress of my fate 
to build my destiny with stone and wood 
by planting fruit trees inside garden walls 
where my descendants may thrive and transcend. 

Death is no threshold our bodies pass through 
for we are composed from atoms of light 
so we must generate children of hope 
through seed that fertilizes egg of love 
to reincarnate soul-genes again in flesh 
four hundred million years of soul rebirth. 

Art Of Radical Insight

Art Of Radical Insight
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

To psychoanalyze my state of mind 
within framework of the Hamlet discourse, 
I enter laboratory of the state 
to practice art of radical insight 
through performance of madness inside words 
that wards off ghosts listening at my door. 

On contours of my deep ambivalence 
toward secret nature of my serpent heart 
I stumble against obstacles of hope 
to shift attention of my eager faith 
through misdirection of my stated goals 
to evade being role model for the world. 

I am no mascot for this fractured time 
by surfing waves of elemental change 
though I lounge in consulting room of fear 
to wrestle angels of aggressive cheer 
who test fierce loyalty of my shy heart 
to the faceless monster who reigns on high. 

Wearing mask of the psychoanalyst, 
I guide lost souls with lyre of Mercury 
that rings with melodies Orpheus wrote 
from cavern of illusions trapped in words 
they write with blood of angels in blank books 
to formulate fuel from sludge of despair. 

Attempting to figure out who I am, 
I strip away all signs of social status 
so I stand naked on the careless field, 
unshielded by illusions of false pride, 
though I must suffer weird mental dysfunction 
because I chant weird prophecies of fate. 

Uncanny to myself, I hear my voice 
reverberate against walls of the state 
which shakes pillars of the establishment, 
yet I sing visions from my own deep mind, 
which no shadowed muse demands I dictate, 
that springs from weird persona of my soul. 

When I stop to think about the weird world, 
the wires of my brain explode sparks of code 
that reprogram how I perceive the real, 
perhaps because I sublimate harsh truth 
with polished metaphors of sublime art 
that traps demonic horror in strict form. 

My one big theory tangled in my heart 
explains true nature of the universe 
that organizes every disparate fact 
in sprawling puzzle of our memories 
which I assemble from all human tales 
to psychoanalyze my state of mind. 

Weird Haze Of Yesterday

Weird Haze Of Yesterday
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

Far from archaic shores of my childhood 
I sail to see God in fog of the future, 
but find only more lands where people dwell 
in cities staged to replay founding tale 
of their ancestor who arrives one day 
to pluck fruit from the giving tree of hope. 

The normal world of truth where I grew up 
has vanished now in dim fog of the past 
where I left corpse of God inside the church 
from which spring nations of humanity 
who worship idols of ancestral guides 
which guard the garden of our secret code. 

After climbing mountains of jagged peaks 
to view paintings that depict long-dead gods, 
I stand before gate to Towers of Silence 
with hope to see the Flame of Zoroaster 
that must still glow with spirit of God Mind 
which flares forth from first flash of the big bang. 

The only place I have ever seen God 
is in the shining mirror on the wall 
that shows how the fairest spirit of all 
animates child of Narcissus and Echo 
whose face emanates energy of faith 
with charismatic glow of divine truth. 

When Oceanus, riding foam-maned horse, 
falls in love with graceful star-eyed Aditi, 
she transforms his spirit of honest faith 
into brave Mithras wearing scarlet cape 
who defeats the cruel tyrant Minotaur 
in brutal battle to wear Crown of Christ. 

Archaic world of my childhood in Texas, 
where I ride my bike to the college campus 
and read about alphabets of the world, 
vanishes in weird haze of yesterday 
when I hitchhike Seattle to Miami 
and play guitar by fountain of the ghost. 

While I meditate by the gushing river 
in pine-crested foothills of Mount Takoma, 
I see three goddesses of wisdom glow, 
Athena, Saraswati, and Kwan Yin, 
who bless me with the Voice of Prophecy 
so I can navigate safe way through Hell. 

Wearing mask of persona I design, 
to shield mortal frailty of my heart, 
I sing Chronicle of Humanity 
disguised in fairy tales of Gothic angst 
that record my quest for the Holy Grail 
which shimmers in the heart of my soul mate. 

Grand Canyon Of Faith

Grand Canyon Of Faith
© Surazeus
2025 05 18

The gray-haired woman in the river boat 
commissions the white raven to retrieve 
gold pocket watch from the insolent knight 
who sells his armor at the antique shop 
for coat of many colors he can wear 
when he attends the posh gallery show. 

The sad angel curled in the oak book shelf 
requests the red-furred cat with serpent eyes 
for pair of wings the snowy owl sells 
then watches the passenger jet of faith 
scatter fake clouds of arrogance with prayer 
while the cat and the owl play game of chess. 

The spider man with thirty-thousand eyes, 
who lives in the Grand Canyon of faith, 
weaves tapestry of human history 
that presents the prophets in dreamless caves 
of every religion mankind invents 
to translate wisdom of toads in the swamp. 

The young school girl wearing long cotton skirt 
climbs down the side of the high red brick wall 
on rusty ladder of excessive faith 
because she wants to ask the robot clown 
how he can always make sad people laugh 
with confusing riddles no one could solve. 

The car mechanic in the large garage 
decides that engines represent the heart 
demonic angels build for time machines 
that lonely people drive across the land 
where Roland blows ivory oliphant horn 
though no one rescues his soldiers from bombs. 

The small-church pastor wearing silver suit 
flips through pages of the Bible to find 
elusive passage that explains how faith 
can save the fool from dancing off the cliff, 
then drinks beer by the oak and laughs all night 
at absurd beauty of the butterfly. 

The serious magician with yew wand 
transforms the toad long croaking in the swamp 
into accountant for the country bank 
tasked to adjudicate requests for loans 
farmers apply to fund their future crops 
in field where Mithra tames the Minotaur. 

The gray-haired woman in the river boat 
gives me the wand she uses to catch fish 
so I ask the school girl to marry me 
so we can translate song of nothingness 
to silly fairy tales children can read 
before they grow up to work in finance. 

Energetic Faith In Dirt

Energetic Faith In Dirt
© Surazeus
2025 05 18

Too long strange silence of the angel wing 
vibrates ancestral memories of the stream 
that floods the plain one hundred million years 
till wingless angel of the aching heart 
explores along the winding river shore 
and picks up gleaming emerald of her eye. 

Alone on grassy plain of floating stars, 
she sings the ancient memory of our genes 
that fuels her endless journey to the moon 
which always gleams above the distant hills 
and lures her to the land of apple trees 
beyond horizon of the wordless wind. 

The child who feels vibration of the rain 
throb deep in crystal bones of honesty 
knows why she is herself and no one else 
in all the history of the universe, 
for she collects the masks of long-dead gods 
to hang on trunks of trees as ticking clocks. 

Long curly hair swirls randomly in wind 
as she walks slowly toward demonic light 
that glimmers weirdly on the giant stone 
which wavers proudly in her aching heart 
till she arrives at edge of nothingness 
to touch the solid coldness of the world. 

What name of energetic faith in dirt 
she breathes with vibrant passion of her tongue 
defines complete expansiveness of self 
wrapped whole in secret warmth of fantasy 
which she decides must designate the face 
who looks at her from shimmer of the pool. 

Through misdirection of the twisted branch 
that points beyond vast whyness of the sky 
she feels soft hand of love enclose her heart 
with gentle protest of the lonesome guard 
who feels complete when she stays by his side 
while glimmer of the sun binds their hearts firm. 

Expressing vision glowing in her eyes 
with vibrant words that slither from her tongue, 
she tells him why their hearts connect in love 
because we calculate our destiny 
through each decision our hearts choose to make 
when we seek wholeness of our secret self. 

Assembled concepts of the fractured world 
complete whole puzzle of their separate hearts 
when they hold hands and walk in silent wind 
to blaze the trail long signless in the sun 
where we now drive our cars on asphalt road 
that takes us round in loops of strict routine. 

Frame Of What Is Real

Frame Of What Is Real
© Surazeus
2025 05 18

Each scene of unresolved false memory 
that flashes blurred across his fuzzy mind, 
as Seth floats through the quiet afternoon 
in peaceful sadness of eternity, 
sparks dull anxiety of numb despair 
that makes him chuckle when he snaps awake. 

Nobody cares about my memories, 
Seth mumbles to the finch on the back porch 
that hops along the rail of eager hope, 
then drinks cold faucet water of concern 
in small home nestled in the grove of oaks 
along suburban street lined with dead cars. 

Submerged in half-dream of the afternoon, 
Seth rides the horse across the windy plain 
to catch the shadow of objective fear 
embodied by the man with doorless key 
whose laughter twists the oak tree into rope 
that dangles from the beam of unjust law. 

Haunted by faceless god his father feared, 
Seth walks quickly past every empty church 
because he knows the doors are locked all week, 
then browses fiction section of bookstores 
to read short summaries of unreal plots 
about men numb with angst of modern life. 

The plush green couch in middle of his house 
floats just above the ground of principles 
in shy defiance of grim gravity 
each time his brain designs new alien world, 
completely different from the state of Earth, 
where he is the brave angel who can fly. 

When Seth decides to fish on lake of dreams, 
where he casts line into abyss of fate 
to catch the Loch Ness Monster of his heart 
who knocks him off balance from his wood boat, 
he falls nine days and nights in wingless flight 
to hum half-awake on his floating couch. 

Through sudden field of shocking certainty 
Seth runs through thunderstorm of laughing gods 
to find the girl he loves beside the lake 
who kisses him in drenching rain of time 
till she reminds him of her secret name 
which reconstitutes frame of what is real. 

Shouting at the empty sky of false faith, 
Seth asks divine zookeeper of the Earth 
if he can perform with elastic grace 
roles of both therapist and referee 
as pope who rules empire of fairy tales, 
then stares out the window as evening falls. 

Almost See The Face

Almost See The Face
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

As star of my own solar system, I 
wake in the quiet house of screaming ghosts 
that beam from every brain alive on Earth 
as radiant static of world emptiness 
without sad story of the human race 
that flickers on blank television screens. 

Eight billion houses on our floating Earth 
blink eyeless windows in the rancid night 
though crackling stars burn human hearts to ash 
because we walk alone on signless roads 
together yet apart in void of time 
just close enough to almost see the Face. 

Anxiety appears in old-man form 
crouched in mute horror of the sunless room 
who follows me as shadow of my body 
which thirsts to drink fermented blood of fear 
that bleeds from pulsing sponges of my eyes 
till I push him in swamp mud of my heart. 

To build the baseline of our real-life tale 
we start with honesty and end with lies 
we carve as masks from skulls of ancient gods 
to hide our aching hearts with bold bravado 
that shields our wounded souls from vampire lust 
on which celebrities of fame must feed. 

By singing riddles of exotic hymns 
I hope to achieve what my heart desires 
when I create virtual Earth in my brain 
to mirror real world composed of atoms 
that seethe from heat to form organic souls 
who writhe with pleasure to create new life. 

With incomprehensible breath of hope, 
I crawl hand over hand to mountain peak 
where I stand on one leg of tense respect 
to reach the first star of the universe 
that still shines pulsing deep inside my brain 
since its first flash flared forth from the big bang. 

I feel how very atom of my soul 
has pulsed with energy of lust for life 
fourteen billion years of spinning time 
through various forms of chemical concepts 
transforming from ideal ghost of the I 
who evolves billions of lives to be me. 

Reframing problem of the afterlife, 
I explain that I am the incarnation 
of my parents in the flesh again now, 
designed by immortal soul of our genes 
as bodies that replicate our God Mind 
in new brains where I almost see the Face. 

Lake Of Dancing Wolves

Lake Of Dancing Wolves
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

Disturbed by how fast Death claims human souls, 
Juturna watches television shows 
about life in the ancient Land of Oz 
where elves build palaces of dreams from snows 
that never cease swirling from weeping moons 
which hang as mirrors on black starless skies. 

Each time she returns to scene of the crime 
to find conceptual evidence of fate, 
Juturna lingers on the ocean shore 
till Arion arrives from end of time 
on star-leaping dolphin of Zathamar 
to give her golden apple of the sun. 

Running together in the river grove 
from horde of assassins wearing black masks, 
young lovers search for somewhere safe to hide, 
till they find cave where Plato waves glass wand 
to teach them secrets of the universe, 
so shy Juturna kisses Arion. 

Unsure of how he feels about her heart, 
Juturna strides across the windy plain 
to weave fantastic visions from green rain, 
so Arion chases shadow of hope 
to find her on solemn Cliffs of Moher 
where he explains to her how he much cares. 

Determined to escape the falling bombs 
that blast all fantasies to kingdom come, 
young lovers drive highway of singing skulls 
till they arrive at lake of dancing wolves 
where they build temple to the Faceless God 
whose apple trees sprout from the fertile sod. 

Back to reality on fairy wings, 
Juturna flies home safe to Illinois 
where she shows photos of her time in France 
to strangers on the street she meets by chance, 
till secret agents of the government 
arrest her for tricking the president. 

Alone on mountain of the burning bush, 
Arion ponders social provenance 
that sparks the rise of prophets who give voice 
to grievance of the people sore oppressed 
who dare revolt against the status quo 
to favor equal rights for every soul. 

Deported to the Isle of Avalon, 
Juturna reunites with Arion 
by lake where snowy egrets flap their wings, 
then holding hands they sit on wooden porch 
to watch empire of America fall 
so Zarathia can rise on Phoenix wings. 

Reason Time Is Weird

Reason Time Is Weird
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

She wonders if the reason time is weird 
could flash from how the raven wing transcends 
eccentric jokes contrived by ringing bells 
despite how fast the book shelves have been cleared 
except for why sweet cuteness still depends 
on serpent princess stealing words from wells. 

So drives steel motorcar of honest hope 
swift on the writhing highway of fake wealth 
to catch the falling star with angel mask 
born as her daughter on the mountain slope 
who grows up hunting butterflies with stealth 
to finish well each fate-appointed task. 

Yet each house glowing by the dragon sea, 
where children play and laugh with fearless joy, 
explodes from bombs hurled by the angry god, 
so they crawl limbless in land of the free, 
then work in factories to assemble toy 
sold in shopping malls by religious fraud. 

Annoyed by attitude of haughty pride 
displayed by football captain on their date, 
she joins the army of the howling horse 
to arrest preachers and scammers who lied 
in schemes to steal money from naive fate 
who sells mineral rights to the holy source. 

When Attila camps at the gates of Rome 
with purpose to enslave the populace, 
fierce Leo meets him on the battle field 
and casts demonic spell from arcane tome 
that sparks compassion for the human race 
so the mighty warrior decides to yield. 

In every age of human history 
demonic spirit of the anti-christ 
incarnates in some tyrant blind with greed 
whose rage oppresses man with misery, 
till from the people rises new brave Christ 
who leads our revolution in dire need. 

Attired as warrior goddess we respect, 
Minerva waves bright flag of our just cause 
to organize our fight for liberty 
and pave way for the social architect 
who will design new set of global laws 
that maintains justice through democracy. 

When she concludes the reason time is weird 
based on analysis of fairy tales 
that people share on social media sites, 
she trains her son to play role of the bard 
who prophesies that Liberty prevails 
through war that paralyzes parasites. 

Wealth Gap Of Fate

Wealth Gap Of Fate
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

Inspired to narrow the wealth gap of fate 
by investing in flights of fantasy, 
Faunus plays hide and seek with Libitina 
who wants to kiss him with sweet vampire eyes, 
while Salacia boils oyster seaweed soup 
to feed the crowd of refugees from war. 

Bright effervescence of the swirling sea 
sparkles deep in his eyes with selfless love 
when Faunus sees long-haired Venilia 
chase butterflies in lush Elysian fields, 
so he leaves Libitina in the cave 
and chases her along the windy beach. 

Enraged at how Faunus abandoned her, 
Libitina crouches on the cliff edge 
and hurls large stone with jagged points of hate 
that cuts the shoulder of Venilia 
who stumbles to her knees and cries in pain, 
so the curly-haired boy tends to her wound. 

Cradling Venilia in his caring arms, 
Faunus leads her safely to the dream cave 
where Salacia gives bowls of oyster soup, 
so he feeds her while she blushes with hope, 
then whispers how she wants to marry him, 
but shrieks in fear when Libitina glares. 

Declaring that Faunus belongs to her 
because her built her temple of the dead 
where she burns corpses in the holy fire, 
Libitina grabs his reluctant hand, 
but he proclaims attention of desire 
to focus love on life rather than death. 

Fuming with anger at his hurtful words 
spoken by one she thought cared for her heart, 
Libitina runs on the windy shore, 
then sits on large black stone of arrogance 
that guards mouth of the gushing snow-fed stream 
to cry at rejection of loyal trust. 

Slim Alpanus in gown of raven feathers 
appears beside her on the river stone, 
who wipes her tears with skeletal hand 
and offers pomegranate with red seeds, 
so Libitina follows master of death 
down into cave of diamonds and despair. 

Turnus, son of Venilia and Faunus, 
rides young horse across the Esquiline Camp 
where he sees young girl with long flowing hair, 
Lucina, proud daughter of Libitina, 
so he embraces her with eager arms, 
and she kisses him with intense desire. 

Matrix Of Our Mutual Mind

Matrix Of Our Mutual Mind
© Surazeus
2025 05 16

Delicate yellow flower of my heart 
blooms through crack in Church of America, 
so I rise up from cavern of desire 
and walk toward shadow of faith I accept 
as way more real than Heaven preachers sell 
who curse their enemies to burn in Hell. 

The prophet rises from the common folk 
when they are trapped in hostile circumstance 
to speak with clear voice of the clairvoyant 
what action they could take against despair 
to overcome oppression of the rich 
who exploit energy of crafting hands. 

Because there is no supernatural God 
who created this world from spoken word, 
I am unprophet of the tribal soul, 
composing spells of complicated code 
to cast clear vision of the virtual world 
that mirrors real world which creates our souls. 

Dedicated to truth of the Ungod, 
who watches not over all that I do, 
I unspool matrix of our mutual mind 
to mirror real world in my dreaming brain 
so I can calculate cause and effect 
to help predict the coming of the sun. 

When people of my nation, fraught with fear, 
cry out with voice of patience in despair, 
I recompile their most outstanding fears 
to seek sanction from shadow of the god 
that emanates from fractured stone of truth 
so I recite clear vision as their guide. 

If we are still on signless road of fate 
that leads from sea shore to the mountain cave, 
we will relax in Temple of Blind Gods 
where flame-caster forges new Wisdom Wand 
for me to wield as Emperor of the Yarth 
despite how clocks unwind my neural soul. 

Each book I eat with alabaster teeth 
contains concepts of twisted energy 
so with apparent flap of angel wings 
my brain uploads new set of memories 
just fading bright from instrument of truth 
which I wield now in crippled state of being. 

With calm alacrity of peaceful pride 
I assemble fragments of fractured truth 
from countless tales of vain experience 
to conjure virtual world of faceless souls 
based on real people who invent new names 
woven in matrix of our mutual mind. 

Ghosts Of Fake Words

Ghosts Of Fake Words
© Surazeus
2025 05 16

Along bright beam-path of the lonely moon, 
heart beating wild with dark misshapen wings, 
I run toward glowing shadow-heart of hope 
that winds out spiral-flight of honesty 
for eye-swirl mist of harrowing desire 
to aim my soul straight through eternity. 

Accelerating leap of earnest faith 
propels my soul across night-wide abyss 
with fierce intent to reach infinity 
on eager wings I bought from Icarus 
who hides in cave of illusions to weave 
expansive matrix of our mutual minds. 

Enclosed within courageous form of faith, 
that whirrs from tides of nothingness I feel, 
my heart embraces time-strong vanity 
to drive fate of my heart against harsh rules 
restraining fierce aggression of my hope 
to play competing game of arrogance. 

Regret winds taut with anger self-control 
by which I rein assertion of my rights 
to manage flushing flow of energy 
that fuels my mission to investigate 
confines of caverns gleaming rich with wealth 
I wish to extract with world-crafting hands. 

Attained by bloated conceit of false faith, 
through aggrandizement of bland boastful pride, 
I glut my heart with insolence of praise, 
disposed toward innocence of vacant nymphs 
who feast on rumors swollen with grim tears 
despite offensive charge of charity. 

Each object pulsing with Solarian light 
vibrates bright outlines of existing forms 
beyond horizon of our consciousness 
in mountains haunted by ghosts of fake words 
whose hands caress my brain with pungent lust 
for bitter juice of my sea-mirror soul. 

Trapped by eternal glow of evening dusk 
that challenges rich substance of my faith 
with naked longing of my heart heart, 
I exit pale of sacred temple hall 
so I experience struggle to survive 
till I return home with treasures of truth. 

Trite manifestation of empty choirs, 
when I paint mural of our tribal tale 
with blood that oozes from my reckless mind, 
deranges how my brain processes facts 
now symbolized by divine characters 
misconstrued as normal people we are. 

Army Of Aggressive Trees

Army Of Aggressive Trees
© Surazeus
2025 05 16

With small hands delicate as flower petals 
Janus rips global web of asphalt roads 
out of the ground while chanting pretty spells, 
and hurls chunks of revolutionary rage 
to smash stores of commercial enterprise 
that impose colonial empire of greed. 

Roots of oak trees curl downward from his feet 
to mangle cement parking lots of malls 
with each passive-aggressive step of faith 
that Janus asserts on quest for the Grail 
when he struts on stage of fashion with pride, 
presenting latest outfit no god wears. 

Descended from the Entish Onodrim, 
and cousin of Groot, born on Planet Ex, 
Janus leads army of aggressive trees 
who march to war against the human race, 
demolishing vast city maze of streets 
as they crush buildings with Odinian fists. 

Surrounding Gold Tower of steel and glass 
that shimmers brightly on Manhattan Isle, 
Janus and army of fierce angry trees 
attack tall palace where King Midas hides 
in revenge for massacre of the trees 
in the cruel ten-thousand-year dentrocide. 

Rampaging forward sea to shining sea, 
Janus and army of trees with strong limbs 
topple thousands of corporate headquarters, 
smashing factories where sons of Vulcanus 
smelt minerals with fire to mold weird machines, 
and stomp on billions of cars as they flee. 

When Midas sends army of warriors 
with tanks and planes to bomb army of trees, 
Janus laughs with booming voice of the void 
as he opens gaping mouth of sharp teeth 
and swallows missiles with satisfied gulp, 
strengthened by explosions of chemicals. 

After Janus and his army of trees 
destroy all of human civilization, 
and leaves devastating mess in his path 
of buildings and cars mangled by outrage, 
he sits on snowy slope of Mount Takoma 
to meditate and seek state of Nirvana. 

Computer wires from the vast world wide web 
slither from heart of darkness to enwrap 
Janus and his army of trees in matrix 
of writhing cables which assimilate 
their rage into virtual world of Earth Mind 
where he dances and sings by Lake of Eyes. 

Grand Heroic Deeds

Grand Heroic Deeds
© Surazeus
2025 05 15

Baffled with how to deal with harsh contempt, 
Sylphus flutters his arms and skips away 
from Mars, who swings long spear with wolfish grunts, 
then twirls around the wispy willow tree 
as long curls of his hair bounce in soft breeze, 
and stoops to cradle the tortoise with care. 

Snarling with rage at the slim girlish boy, 
Mars trundles toward him like the huffing bull 
that charges with sharp horns at spritely hart 
which darts back and forth with elegant leaps, 
but Sylphus giggles as he somersaults 
when the burly warrior falls on his face. 

"Each human soul born from spirit of Tellus, 
fertile Terra Mater who creates life," 
Sylphus explains to the gruff warrior, 
"is given various strengths and weaknesses 
as gift for us to offer with intent 
of honest care for glory of our tribe." 

Sudden scream echoes through Sylvian Woods, 
so Mars and Sylphus, to investigate, 
together run toward arched Carmental Gate 
where they find several men wearing wolf cloaks 
attempting to abduct with grasping hands 
wise nymph Carmenta with milk-flowing breasts. 

While Mars attacks with Achillean Spear, 
battling to beat their bodies with brute blows, 
Sylphus swiftly darts in graceful assault 
to thwack their spirits with Mercurian Wand, 
thus both with unique tactics of their skills 
defeat abductors with offensive strikes. 

While Mars binds the one rapist left alive, 
Sylphus assists Carmenta to stand straight, 
cradling lithe nymph with gentle arms of care, 
and for long moment of timeless suspense 
their gazes weave their souls with rainbow wings 
which binds their hearts with sweet romantic glow. 

Strolling together on Tiber stream shore, 
Carmenta and Sylphus talk about ways 
to help refugees from fierce tribal wars, 
then set up tables on Campus of Mars 
with food and clothing for the homeless folk 
who pray that Feronia bless them with wealth. 

Sitting together in Carmentium, 
her oracle temple by the arched gate, 
Carmenta and Sylphus present play 
that shows Mars defending people from harm 
where he plays tune on lyre of Mercurius 
and she sings song of grand heroic deeds. 

Empire Of Crystal Towers

Empire Of Crystal Towers
© Surazeus
2025 05 14

Each ship that sails the wide ambitious sea, 
with purpose to illuminate the mind, 
leaves its hopeful ghost behind on the waves 
which bears unconscious spirit of the world 
to colonize vast wilderness of fear 
with wolves who build empire of crystal towers. 

If old Clockmaker dares rewind the past 
with broken clock of midnight in his heart, 
we may get lost in secret memories 
while driving wagon train of hungry wheels 
to find the Promised Land on every map 
where we can build empire of crystal towers. 

Each lemon I pluck from Reading Room tree, 
with sly attention to the subtle way 
canaries sing in gold mines of the heart, 
reveals vast galaxy of swirling stars 
when I peel rind of arrogant dismay 
which helps design empire of crystal towers. 

If Ziphion finds Library of Blind Ghosts, 
nestled in lush valley of singing skulls, 
he might remember what his father said 
while carving computer code on oak trunks 
deep in the maze of myths no fool can map 
which dislocates empire of crystal towers. 

Each bedroom door of heavenly retreat, 
that shimmers in House of the Rising Sun, 
conceals clandestine chorus of cute cupids 
who sing of sweet romantic love in spells 
that trick us into generating life 
to live safe in empire of crystal towers. 

If hermits in harsh desert of regret, 
who dwell on Mount Sinai with burning trees, 
describe aesthetic beauty of the heart 
that suffers deprivation of desire, 
we may find courage of the noble wolf 
to establish empire of crystal towers. 

Thus I will sail from Hellas to Japan 
with secret treasure of the Golden Fleece 
to find shy Goddess of the Mirror Cave 
who touches my forehead with her third hand 
to tattoo dreamless spell with quill of fire 
when I record empire of crystal towers. 

Yet far pavilions shining in dawn light 
invite me to return to paradise 
though I fled maze of political games 
six thousand years ago with fruit of truth 
that oozes ink I use to calculate 
how Death supports empire of crystal towers. 

River Of God Light

River Of God Light
© Surazeus
2025 05 14

When Lucifer instructs me to tone down 
aggressive rhetoric of my prophecies 
with moral values that would moderate 
intense attack of justice to reduce 
deceptive scams of political thieves, 
I advocate true vision of my heart. 

When you read vision these words generate, 
which projects concept of some character, 
your attention conjures their eidolon 
so they glow in virtual world of your mind, 
but they will cease to exist when you stop, 
and they will disappear in void of thought. 

When I read words in sentences of tales 
that shimmer on flat pages of the book, 
its spirit dwells as ghost inside my heart 
to become safe habitat for my soul, 
so I drink water of the World God Mind 
that resurrects my body from my sorrow. 

When hands pull my body out of the womb, 
I feel immortal light of gleaming stars 
beam my consciousness from the swirling void 
to wake in neural network of my brain 
which animates this fragile frame of flesh 
so I generate life before I die. 

When I translate light of the universe 
through magic spells my breath articulates, 
I steer my body through maze of desires 
to overcome harsh obstacles of fear 
till I transcend pain of this fragile frame 
to walk along the River of God Light. 

When I transmute pain of my suffering 
into reward I expect from the gods, 
while struggling against forces of greed 
that would exploit energy of my soul 
to generate wealth from blood of my labor, 
I realize as I die all work is vain. 

When I stare helpless at the shining stars, 
as conscious spirit of my energy 
fades into wordless currents of the sea, 
I laugh at weird absurdity of life 
that has no meaning but what I create 
to savor pleasures till Death crushes me. 

When Lucifer glares at me with fierce eyes 
of moral judgment that condemns my soul, 
I shout the special voice my soul radiates 
with courage to tone up my song of joy, 
for, knowing I will die, I sing weird spells 
that vanish through wind of eternity. 

Laws Of Wise Astaria

Laws Of Wise Astaria
© Surazeus
2025 05 14

When bright-eyed Bacchus in leopard-skin cloak 
dances on slopes of Mount Vesuvius, 
my heart swells whole with passion for the truth 
that urges me to rise on demon wings 
and with compassion for the common folk 
oppose the tyrant in grand hall of gold. 

With Sisyphus I roll the Justice Stone 
up to the top of Helicon at dawn, 
then aim its power at idol of greed 
with feet of clay, though its head glitters gold, 
to free humanity from tyranny 
so we can dance with Bacchus in the rain. 

Sweet grapes that swell from soul of sun and rain, 
transforming soil of sorrow into juice, 
I drink pure liquor of your timeless truth 
that sparks weird visions in my flashing brain 
till I feel power of divinity 
animate my clay body with God Light. 

Born from fertile womb of the scarlet moon, 
graceful Selena with star-silver eyes, 
wild Bacchus leads us dancing in the woods 
to free our hearts from sorrow of hard work 
so we can worship wise Astaria 
who sings in temple on her ziggurat. 

Through bitter darkness of the raging storm, 
that shatters homes we built with crafting hands, 
we see star lamp of holy Liberty 
gleam bright in hand of wise Astaria 
whose voice inspires our aching hearts with hope 
when she recites Creation of the World. 

No matter how deep in the wilderness 
I wander on grand mission of my heart 
in quest to find the Holy Grail of Life, 
I see bright light of Liberty shine clear 
as beacon on tall ziggurat of faith 
that guides me safely on the road back home. 

All lies of politicians dissipate 
as smoke of guns in gust of holy wind 
when wise Astaria speaks words of faith 
for simple is oration of the truth 
while cruel deceptive lies twist facts in knots 
that bind our hearts with hope for fantasies. 

When Bacchus leads us to the apple grove 
that flourishes on Mount Parnassus slope, 
he teaches us to spot deceptive tricks 
that cheaters use to scam us of our wealth, 
secured by laws of wise Astaria 
who guards the world so we may all live free. 

Honeycomb Of His Brain

Honeycomb Of His Brain
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

When Ziphion walks in village by the sea, 
as nameless stranger only passing through, 
shadow of each person he passes by 
whispers their secrets in numberless math 
which transform into honey bees of glass 
who swirl into honeycomb of his brain. 

Lured by warm scent from the old bakery, 
Ziphion gazes in green eyes of the woman 
who bakes his memories in loaf of rye bread, 
and when he eats it with butter and jam 
he relives the moment when he was twelve 
when he saw his mother fly to the clouds. 

Climbing steps between the two living lions, 
Ziphion enters library of dream books 
small as apple seeds that swell from his tears 
into huge dragons that roar out his name, 
demanding he wear mask of the dead god 
whose story is recorded in its text. 

Because he exudes different pungent scents 
each morning he wakes from the glass piano, 
rosewater, pine wood, salt air, honey, pear, 
Ziphion transforms into different versions 
of his true self no one has ever seen 
each time he wanders in the maze of streets. 

Wandering dreary streets in the river town, 
where rain falls only on the sorrowful, 
Ziphion studies his personal storm cloud 
that drenches him with tears of bitter hope 
while everyone else walks in bright sunlight, 
till he laughs at absurdity of fear. 

Pausing by pear tree with the human face, 
Ziphion stares at the blank book in his hand 
where red letters writhe with serpentine grace 
that record prophetic poems he once sang 
before he forgot them when he turned twelve, 
so he slowly removes his egg-shell mask. 

Dipping horse-hair brush in blood of their hearts, 
Ziphion paints portraits of people he meets, 
which age while they all stay forever young 
yet reveal emotional truths of faith 
they try to hide with laughter and good cheer 
while he goes swimming in the starless lake. 

When the moon descends in the Wishing Well 
where she transforms into dragon of words, 
Ziphion joins the untroubled villagers 
who draw silver coins from depths of despair 
which shimmer with their long-forgotten dreams 
that bleed songs from honey comb of his brain. 

Quietness Of The Fence

Quietness Of The Fence
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

Rob finds his fence half-buried in snow drift 
in line of rails that time renders unsure, 
some leaning, some snapped, and some lost to moss, 
but still they trace his thoughts across the land, 
so he sets his boot on one sagging beam 
and feels soft hush of something waiting near. 

Rob and his brother fought to claim this field, 
neither giving ground, yet they had to yield, 
so they built this fence, not to split the soil 
but claim strict boundary to unbind their hearts, 
one planting apples, and one tending maples, 
for trees know which side they are rooted in. 

Rob walks along the path the fence has made, 
leaving traces of his steps in thin snow 
where crows mark their blackness on sunlit white 
as if to say, remember who has gone, 
for their slow wings beat patient in the wind, 
yet tell no lies in gloom of evening dusk. 

Stopping to lift one rail back into place, 
its wood gone soft, its hard nails rusted through, 
Rob feels it give, then settle in rough hands, 
as if to show it served as best it could, 
for loyal fences understand too well 
men only ever try to hold the line. 

When sudden storm wind whacks the gate ajar, 
Rob notes light tracks of some swift ghostly fox 
that seemed to pause before she crossed the path 
and wondered, perhaps, who had made this mark, 
if human scent still lingers by the fence 
of if the land is empty now of names. 

When low sun flares in shards of crystal ice 
and catches tips of trees in sudden flame 
that makes the fence seem noble in its tilt, 
as weathered spine that still stands firm on truth, 
Rob sees his breath and knows the cold remains, 
yet feels strange warmth from wisdom of the stars. 

What matters is not whether lines remain, 
but whether we can walk them with calm grace, 
for the fence that lets wind through is no wall, 
and though it frames the field, it chains no hill, 
for man can mend what he is not ashamed 
to say was built by hands of angered love. 

With snow dust in his cuffs, Rob ventures home, 
his shadow lengthened down the furrowed path 
where still trees line quietness of the fence 
that never speaks, but neither does it fall, 
for its rails keep old memories of its place 
and holds truth up for everyone to see. 

Timepiece Of Hope

Timepiece Of Hope
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

Hunched over workbench in his clockwork shop, 
between cake shop and dress shop by the sea, 
Josiah twirls hands on the broken clock 
that beams past moments in dream of this world 
to flicker scenes that happened years before, 
so he gasps that he can relive the past. 

As he peers through gold-rim glasses with awe, 
Josiah stares in shock at graceful ghost 
of his daughter Miriam who disappeared 
years ago, face gleaming in midnight moon 
with soft angelic beauty of the lost, 
so he spends every night with her mute shade. 

When Alice hears gossip at the fruit stand 
that Clockmaker Josiah has gone mad 
claiming his daughter visits him each night, 
she knocks at midnight with her broken clock, 
so when he tweaks its gears her son appears 
to show he was shot in war as they weep. 

Ten years to the day since Miriam was lost, 
young girl in clean white dress with long red hair 
appears before his desk with cracked hourglass 
and letter in handwriting of his daughter 
marked clear with date of the following day, 
which asks that he repair timepiece of hope. 

Desperate to see how his daughter was lost, 
Josiah repairs the hourglass with honey 
which flashes bright to part the veil of time 
in swirling portal of pure energy, 
so the young red-haired fairy takes his hand 
and leads him into swirling winds of fate. 

While the clock in his shop ticks in reverse, 
Josiah finds himself on rocky shore, 
gazing far at his daughter Miriam 
who cradles new-born baby with red hair 
as she boards small boat tossed by stormy waves, 
then weeps as she vanishes in sad mist. 

Startled awake at rosy gleam of dawn, 
Josiah hears songs of wrens in pear trees, 
then kneels beside young girl with long red hair 
who wakes from sleep and smiles with silver eyes 
as she sits at the table of his heart, 
then explains that her name is Maryanne. 

Holding large gold murex seashell in her hands, 
Maryanne declares that her heart can hear 
voice of every person who lives on Earth 
express secret thoughts they speak not out loud, 
so he caresses her hair as she sings, 
then repairs broken clocks of hope with care. 

Where The Vampire Lives

Where The Vampire Lives
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

If the walnut tree cannot understand 
sweet song of rubber tires on asphalt roads, 
then only butterflies will know the way 
back to library of the singing skull 
who photographs weird strangers strolling by 
till they all disappear in lonely leaves. 

If the candycane-striped lizard decides 
to erase formulas of secret dreams 
from chalkboards of empty high-school classrooms, 
then wizard who works in small country town 
as car mechanic could refuse to tell 
the city gumshoe where the vampire lives. 

If the rusty green Lincoln Continental 
grinds serpent eggs into computer code, 
then the sad vampire searching for true love 
might hide inside the chemistry textbook 
when the old detective in wrinkled suit 
pokes around the library of his brain. 

If the goldfinch in the walnut tree sees 
the evil vampire in gray business suit 
aim shotgun at the trench coat by the gate, 
then he should call Minerva on the phone 
who races on the tortoise to protect 
her father from the conman at the bank. 

If the car mechanic hears the goldfinch 
explain how to play chess to the Grim Reaper, 
then he may wander in the western waste 
without the country of his spirit birth 
till he becomes the stranger on the street 
who finds the vampire stabbed behind the church. 

If Remus photographs the running man 
who throws the skull of Jesus at the moon, 
he mind arrest the banker in the church 
who drinks communion wine with bitter snarl 
before he turns into the writhing snake 
that slithers along sewer pipes of faith. 

If the girl harlequin in fluffy skirt 
campaigns for mayor of the country town, 
then the mechanic she secretly loves 
can play golf with Aristotle at dawn 
who gives her the most expensive jet plane 
as gift in return for rights to drill oil. 

If the sky falls in shards of broken dreams 
transforming into snow flakes of desire, 
then we can program lies that tell the truth 
which shine bright as lamp of Diogenes 
who solves the strangest murder mystery 
written with blood on falling autumn leaves. 

Library Of Lemon Ghosts

Library Of Lemon Ghosts
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

Stuck in glass library of lemon ghosts, 
I browse books bound with masks of long-dead souls, 
then place one mask over my own weird face 
so I dream the life journey of that soul, 
but when I take it off the mask transforms 
into goldfinch that flies into the clouds. 

Lemons on the tree in domed reading room 
glow with the long-dead souls of nameless gods, 
and when I pluck each one they whisper codes 
of secrets in forgotten languages 
which I drink from tall glass of lemonade 
while the goldfinch brings me angel-wing quills. 

Shelves of books arranged in orchard rows sway, 
spines etched with thorny vines of yellow roses, 
and in between them silky leaves drift down 
to mutter confessions of secret hopes 
that people try to hide as they perform 
prewritten roles of gods in ancient books. 

Wearing smooth porcelain mask for her face, 
Librarian Sylvia in breeze-blown gown 
waters lemon tree each morning with ink, 
then files silence of souls who died in pain 
in glass books labeled with their secret names 
till they transform into star butterflies. 

While Ziphion strides long winding corridors, 
storm of paper masks, stained with lemon juice, 
swirl around him till they form new-born books 
printed with invisible text of faith 
that glows in beams of moonlight in the window 
where goldfinches talk shop with butterflies. 

When Ziphion stands before mirror of eyes 
at far end of the philosophy aisle, 
its crystal square does not reflect the viewer 
but masked version of his twin doppelganger 
who sits under the lemon tree of truth 
reading stories to gold-winged cherubim. 

Twisted lemon branches form reading desk 
of open drawers with miniature theaters 
where masked puppets of weird heroic gods 
reenact scenes from books banned by the tyrant 
who thinks satires depict his enemies 
as goldfinches attack him on gold throne. 

Climbing the spiral staircase of stacked books 
on citrus-tree roots where striped pythons writhe, 
Ziphion steps through tunnel of glass masks 
pinned to the walls as screaming butterflies 
that weep ink in jars Sylvia collects 
for children in school to write fairy tales. 

Painting Of Her New Face

Painting Of Her New Face
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

When she takes the old painting off the wall 
she hears wordless whispers it leaves behind, 
so she waits till the glass telephone rings 
then fills it with the silence of her hope, 
but when she draws map to her secret heart 
time morphs her to the painting on the wall. 

Her grandfather clock with glass mask of god 
sprouts into the leafless tree by the lake 
on the windless desert of shattered mirrors 
where each shard of dishonesty reflects 
different forgotten childhood scene of faith, 
so she plucks the midnight apple of loss. 

She climbs the staircase made of human hands, 
ascending with calm grace of dancing cows 
to the jellyfish-shaped clouds which pulsate 
with slow ticking of invisible clocks 
to replace each painting she throws away 
with another painting of her new face. 

Swimming to the library of true love, 
she reads books with fins that open themselves 
and whisper all their contents in reverse 
while goldfish with human eyes of rainbows 
swim between the shelves of singing skulls 
who paint new paintings for her empty walls. 

Knowing she loves her paintings of sad ghosts, 
the blindfolded Moon Girl with scarlet eggs 
walks the tightrope strung between crumbling towers 
constructed from albums of photographs, 
and spills silver sand from her paper hand 
that transform into butterflies midair. 

While she floats singing in river of flowers, 
her canvas paints ghost of her childhood self 
with brush that sprouts from limb of the plum tree 
in mountain landscape that spills from its frame 
and floods her doorless room with dancing hills, 
so she takes off her mask glued on with tears. 

As painter with brass mirror for her face, 
she stands before blank canvas of regret 
that reflects not what she paints with old words 
but what she now refuses to remember 
about crows flying through electric storms 
to dwell in pulsing hearts of broken clocks. 

Floating wingless in Museum of Dreams, 
she glides through doors of paintings that expand 
into other worlds spinning inside her brain, 
each globe another version of the viewer 
who observes their face from inside the painting, 
endlessly looping back into her home. 

Courage In The Soul

Courage In The Soul
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

When tyrants rise to grip the Earth with hate, 
her rich hills recoil, rivers blast to dust, 
harsh sun glares down through veils of mournful ash, 
and stars flame out in cinders of despair, 
since air boils thick with lies of mailed command 
till Freedom hides her widowed heart in black. 

Yet from our common soil the bold voice springs, 
unheralded by mark of noble birth, 
and cries against arrogance of the throne 
with breath that seems as fleeting as calm hope, 
yet mountains shake when true hearts dark to speak, 
cracking gold thrones with swords honest men wield. 

Fierce as the lion chained within their breast, 
when Justice calls with trumpet clang of fate, 
Courage seeks neither comfort nor reward, 
but stands alone with Sword of Liberty 
against cruel legions spurred by tyranny, 
one resolved soul far mightier than their greed. 

Though loyal martyrs die with open eyes, 
not weak with tears, but blazing as they fight, 
their unjust deaths inspire souls of the land 
as seed of fire that burns the frozen yoke, 
and tyrants write their doom with bloody ink 
that flows from wounds of their oppressive hate. 

While cowards kneel and barter peace for chains, 
and flatter power with honeyed servile tongues, 
brave people stride with Spirit of the Truth, 
wearing their wounds as medals on their hearts, 
along dark paths, yet fear no war-smoked night, 
for stars are born where Courage dares to breathe. 

Each soul who strides with upright strength of faith, 
who will not bend to keep their body whole, 
knows wealth is not in gold, but in resolve, 
for tyrants hoard, but Courage freely gives 
with honest vows that remain after death 
as whisper forged from thunder in our bones. 

The hollow crown weighs nothing more than dust, 
nor is law just that serves the selfish will 
when kings forget their contract with the state, 
for when they rule as gods the Earth will quake 
till hearts of the people forge swords of hope, 
then tyranny, though armored, bleeds in fear. 

So stand, my soul, on honest scarp of truth, 
though winds of power howl against our faith, 
for Wisdom is my lamp no storm can quench 
when I strike, not for hate, but bond of right, 
since every Truth we speak in gloom of fear 
rings bright with Bell of Courage in the soul. 

Empty Sky Of Where

Empty Sky Of Where
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

New statue of the baby born from mud, 
brain ticking with gears of the eager watch, 
expresses voice of hope with cry for truth 
compressed as milk from breast of Mother Earth 
which takes its place among the elements 
that redefine museum of the mind. 

Face of my mother, bright as morning clouds, 
distills clear mirror that reflects my soul 
with slow effacement of that divine hand 
which reaches down from empty sky of where 
to rearrange my memories in soft words 
that flicker with sea waves to be more fair. 

If window frame of my new infant brain 
will swallow stars of vowels flashing souls, 
my body may swell huge with breath of thought 
so I can float above this maze of homes 
where cows drive motorcycles on dirt roads 
to roar through shadows of the doorless wall. 

Thus born from laughing books of hungry crows 
I swoop library halls of ancient maps 
where scholars resurrect specific gods 
with reverent honesty of measured faith 
to paint new characters on sacred walls 
in mural that depicts grand history. 

Escaped from factory of the blind machine 
where I assembled engines from god bones, 
I wander waste land of the howling wind 
where I arrange stones in enormous swirls 
that spiral lithe as dragons of my heart 
which none can see except from soaring planes. 

Inhaling spirit of the holy hymn, 
that fallible humans with angel wings 
sing solemnly with annoying Saint Voice, 
I fly ungracefully above small town 
to swoop above taut phone lines of our hearts 
and swirl around tall trees with giggling leaves. 

When my mother appears with silver eyes 
wearing cloud mask from empty sky of where, 
I see twelve million generations bloom 
through evolution of the singing fish 
to human face she wears with beaming smile 
as she sings lullaby of the white horse. 

Each statue of Mary carved from gray stone, 
which stands in every cathedral on Earth, 
bears new-born child from spirit of the sun 
whose fate is written by the money man 
to rule as king in castle of his fear 
till I decide to run into the woods. 

Knowledge I Am Alive

Knowledge I Am Alive
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

Though this sullen world cares less about me 
than rocks that hum in river of rainbows, 
I wander landscape of unwelcome wind 
to howl with beasts who want to eat my soul 
and dance with wild abandon of the dead 
till I ache with knowledge I am alive. 

No hymn I harp with howl of holy hurt 
could mirror anguish of my angry heart 
quite like rain crashing into fields of mud 
where I crawl chortling to the Promised Land 
that always fades into bright glare of dawn 
to vanish with foul words I blush to speak. 

Dead gods I worship shiver in black rain 
as murky shadows hungry for my blood, 
so I hide in cracked television screen 
to prove I am more than blind mind machine 
programmed to sing soft elegies of faith 
which I scratch with my bones in river mud. 

Knees torn to bloody shreds by jagged rocks, 
I crawl the long and winding road of faith 
through meadow of the dancing skeletons 
toward Misty Mountains of the happy wolf 
who gives the silver moon of apple fate 
to this poor fool I accept that I am. 

Tall pines of hope that gleam with golden rays, 
which thread our lonely mountains in breasts 
by which we breathe ethereal ghost of truth, 
invite me to transcend my wretched frame 
of brittle bones enwrapped in shroud of fear 
so I release crow of my heart to fly. 

Unfocused purpose of forgotten quest 
diverts my fierce attention from fake wealth 
I yearn to hoard from dragons I have slain 
in burning tower of the weeping queen 
who hurls my body back to my own time 
where I will play no genocidal king. 

Thus I cannot regret the holy hour 
I first meet on the signless road of fate 
the perfect soul mate for my twisted heart 
whose clarifying eyes of honest truth 
extract my spirit from hell-loop of guilt 
which straightens out my random thrust of hope. 

Reborn from sultry womb of dreamless cave, 
I play lithe River Walker with pizazz 
through mask of vigorous vitality 
to woo young princess with long golden hair 
who wears wreath of red flowers my hands wove 
and smiles while pouring me hot cup of tea. 

Gray Cement Wall

Gray Cement Wall
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

Gray cement wall curves with balletic grace 
enclosing silver emptiness of light 
with brute solidity of wordless faith 
to peak at pinnacle of wingless flight 
through incandescent glow of honesty 
that rotely radiates measured modesty. 

One small gold primrose soft in verdant glow 
sprouts slender through narrow crack in cement 
with prime vulgarity through hungry show 
expressing fierce organic sentiment 
for bold ambition of sheer chemistry 
depicting angels on broad tapestry. 

To pledge collateral concepts of concern, 
which should secure repayment of deep faith, 
I forfeit insight that shore rocks discern 
with each aggressive swirl of ocean waves 
that wreck our psychotic modernity 
with liberal grace based on fraternity. 

Descending different lines of surreal dreams, 
compiled from mirror universe of hope, 
we unspool counterclockwise atom streams 
despite engagement with angels to cope 
through our redesigned world ontology 
which recalculates fake theology. 

If rain evaporates back to dawn of fate, 
outflashing shelter we construct from lies, 
we might soon learn old tricks to unforget 
word-blurred visions which reprogram our eyes 
still coding how we view infinity 
wrapped with proverbs through eternity. 

Collapsing Other Minds of consciousness 
compile dream-scattered concepts of untruth 
by time-assembling puzzle words of stress 
which accents mask worn by messiah sleuth 
through weird solution of autonomy 
that urges free will through astrology. 

Our mothers gather by the star-eyed lake 
to sing in special choir of One Globe Mind 
grand never-ending epic tale of fate 
which illustrates social morals they designed 
that show us how to spark fertility 
through romance to increase humanity. 

My mother mouths strange secrets of the soul 
that glow from mirrors in house of our hearts 
so I weave visions from ancestral role 
on dream map fashioned from my mental charts 
so I can navigate disparity 
on restless ocean of prosperity. 

Chapel Of My Heart

Chapel Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

When my thoughts become stairs of molten glass 
I climb so my footsteps sing honey blood 
that feeds blind ghosts who unroll tinsel wings 
and whisper secrets to shape jagged leaves 
for horse made of clocks who devours the sky 
then rests inside the chapel of my heart. 

Each time I meet my self on signless road, 
as statue forged from light of turbid words, 
my hands design new paper gods of faith 
for lonely children with butterfly feet 
to hide divinity inside their bones 
because the moon ballets on broken roofs. 

Despite how seabeds fashioned from silk clouds 
reflect horse souls of newspaper and blood, 
shy Gabriel types tales on turtle shells 
with ink of peach juice bleeding from our eyes 
which crack as eggshells at song of the sea 
so flocks of clocks glide bright in bitter dusk. 

He finds glass tower where Rapunzel waits 
for mirror god to ride steel horse of gears 
and bring her violin from muddy swamp 
so she can play sweet elegies of hope 
that raise the dead from blurry photographs 
who ask the bronze crow why she never cries. 

Despite insurance purchased by the clown 
the asphalt alligator dials my brain 
though I chant futile liturgy of dust 
to trap the arrogant through promises 
they translate back from static of law codes 
distorted by the forest fog of faith. 

Before confession of the laughing cow, 
dragged down by gushing river of fake thoughts, 
the River Walker drinks wine of despair 
shaped by long absences of haughty gods 
who drive fast cars on blistered skin of Earth 
in futile race with Mary on her bike. 

Still lacking grief he purchases from love, 
bored Gabriel decides to stitch with threads 
of scarlet lust the tattered paper coat 
which pretty Death wears as young debutante 
to skate iced pond still veined with pale decay 
before third coming of the greedy lord. 

Thus snowflakes long oblivious to time 
paint smooth unwrinkled face of cosmic truth 
to mask my face before I turn to stone 
and measure permanence of fleeting words 
that bathe our naked souls in amber light 
when they sing inside chapel of my heart. 

Ziphion Spiral Starchild

Ziphion Spiral Starchild
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

While Steve fixes broke engine of the truck 
in cold garage beside the busy road 
he feels spiral starchild bloom in his heart 
from eerie melody of crystal flutes, 
so he calls the River Walker by name 
who sprinkles sugar of faith in his eyes. 

Glass tower grows moist mouth that sings in bells 
with bronze tongue wounding adamantine hearts, 
so Steve walks curling streets of fettered smoke 
when River Walker names him Ziphion 
though boots dissolve in mirrors made of wax 
that seal his vampire soul in grave of gears. 

Yet spiral starchild in the weeping tree 
plays glass violin with serpentine hands 
till apple eyes swirl from the Burning Bush 
since River Walker sings in clockspring squeals 
with breath of parchment etched by dancing hooves 
despite untime deflashing fountain pools. 

When Ocean Woman carved from salt gives birth 
to fierce angelic wind of screaming caves, 
she names him Zephyr with the flaking spine 
as son of Ziphion who plays violin 
since he unzips his skin and steps aside 
to eat the peach inside the singing sun. 

Because Ziphion spiral starchild drinks 
gold ink of human dreams from open hands, 
flash flood of vowels soaks his crumbling jaw 
till they grow wings and nest inside his skull, 
so alphabet of lies transforms to beast 
that blinks in colors he could never name. 

With hands of candelight amused by death 
Ziphion builds cathedral of weird fate 
from muddy stained-glass lungs of coral blue 
so love blooms from womb of the chandelier 
as saint with antlers twisted from bomb ash 
who drinks ink from books he would never write. 

With spider legs the moon on legal spires 
undances back through wind of fractured eyes, 
then breaks her back and scatters into bells 
that ring deep in my bones as nameless gods 
comprised of paper bees in tolling veins 
when Zephyr swallows fake paternal mask. 

When Ziphion meets his alter ego Steve, 
trapped in glass mannequin of silver smoke, 
he gives bread and wine to poor hungry folk 
who sleep inside warm chapel of his chest, 
then drinks sweet dusk of honest marigolds 
to find the streets of fame have learned to speak. 

Your Great Empire Falls

Your Great Empire Falls
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

While they sing of the Promised Land in church 
I stand up and walk out the shadow door 
to stand beneath the flowering chestnut tree 
where birds discuss romantic states of mind. 
If I become the lark no one hears sing 
then no one can steal my liberty wing. 

Frogs croak in the pond by the cemetery 
where my ancestors can hear their lonely songs. 
I vow while gripping yew bow of concern 
to dedicate my heart to right all wrongs 
unjustly done to the weak by the strong, 
then stare at the river flow in bright haze. 

Strange sleepiness seems to numb my fierce heart 
with anguish of suffering people endure 
who struggle to survive hunger and fear 
enforced by men on horses with sharp swords. 
Cars honk as traffic lights flash green and red 
past park where I doze in the afternoon. 

We found the Promised Land across the sea 
after we escaped the dark castle keep 
and sailed by ship to search for liberty 
through storms that almost wrecked our fragile faith. 
We killed the native tribes of paradise 
and built this empire of true faith with guns. 

Swift horses, we once rode with gusting wind 
to build vast empires sea to shining sea 
for God on Earth who reigns on throne of gold 
from Tower of Babel on pyramid 
we built with bleeding hands of loyalty, 
now graze all day in fenced fields of regret. 

Pink flowers of the wind-blown chestnut tree 
spiral from heaven to glow in my hair 
as I watch people drive cars somewhere else 
with frantic purpose to earn wealth of faith. 
As homeless savior of the busy world, 
I wait the hour you call for me to rule. 

Three thousand years ago I harrowed hell 
to save my love from slavery of fear, 
but learned I cannot bring the dead to life 
for once our bodies crumble into dust 
our animating souls disperse in wind. 
Yet still I hope to give her life again. 

The oldest woman in the world strolls by 
the park bench where I ponder history 
to pause with gleam of wisdom in her eye 
as she gives me fresh hamburger and fries, 
so I hold communion with faith in love 
while your great empire falls around your heads. 

Her Shipwrecked Home

Her Shipwrecked Home
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

Eating at round kitchen table of hope 
with birds transforming from her wingless eyes, 
she dreams her house is floating on the sea 
with skirt of her obsessions as broad sail 
that captures wind of sorrow blowing wild 
so she can find the land where flowers sing. 

With hands that know dark passion of the soil 
from which ghosts of her ancestors spring tall, 
she eats the holy sandwich of regret 
in fraught communion with the solemn door 
through which no devil knows to tread again 
to wreck ship of her sorrows on the sea. 

Despite sharp eager pain of wordless love 
that bleeds from arrow Cupid fires each hour, 
she walks broad avenue of fluttering trees 
to follow signs revealing secret names 
that guide her journey to the public square 
where children play around the fountain pool. 

Immense attrition glowing silver wind, 
her heart sustains from harsh attack of faith, 
rebuilds her world view with conceptual code 
contrived from grape vines tight around her heart 
at sight of one young boy with tousled hair 
who sails his toy ship on the restless sea. 

Though she stands still as statue of brave Joan, 
burned at the stake for fighting tyranny, 
sharp nails of her despair spill from her purse, 
which devils use to pierce hands of free souls, 
and scatter clacking on communal stone 
with ringing melody of angry hope. 

Attempting to retrieve from wounded hearts 
sharp nails of anguish she denies are hers, 
she asks stone angel on the fountain pool 
if he will build new house from secret dreams 
to shelter her soft lacerated heart 
in ship that sails forever on wild seas. 

Broad wings of his incapable respect 
crack hard conventions of dutiful fate 
to shroud her fragile body with his love 
when stone angel of socialized acclaim 
bears her fear-weakened soul in gentle arms 
safe to her ship that floats on fertile waves. 

Still half awake before dawn bleeds desire, 
she stretches languidly in bed of trust, 
and gazes lovingly at rain-worn face 
of her stone angel whose intense respect 
impregnates her with mountain god of love, 
then cooks him breakfast in her shipwrecked home. 

Wings Of Pale Decay

Wings Of Pale Decay
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

Awake on thin ice of their fragile hearts, 
too taut to trust with steps they need to take, 
they float on tattered wings of pale decay 
above the milk-glass pond of fabled fate 
with faces bulging from the weightless tide 
to mouth mute song of hope sealed by despair. 

White bones of birch limbs bruising metal sky 
deny sweet innocence of loyal faith 
with creak of lovers shifting in their bed, 
too old to cry, too young to hide their fears, 
who wrap old coats around their paper skin 
as seams, stitched tight by needle of doubt, split. 

Bright mirrors in their house of memories 
may turn their backs against sad face of doubt 
if they refuse to see what hope as grown 
with trembling fingers, cold from spidery thought, 
yet they unbutton coats their past selves wore 
that radiate rancid scent of petrichor. 

They feed hearth fire with photographs of fate 
that bend combusted into throat of light 
which swallows smiles they lose in moaning grass 
since pictures that record their happiness 
lie with red eye of burning time to watch 
how they are almost not afraid of death. 

The shrieking kettle on the grumpy stove 
boils fiercely till consequences condense 
in sweating windows that should mourn the cold 
till they grow colder with clean frost of love 
while porcelain dolls inside glass bell jar 
ring sharp when no one listens close enough. 

When shadows scissor through unopen doors 
at falling of the fork that stabs the floor, 
they share heart-warming meal with wordless care, 
though cutlery protests their sleight of hand 
since ghosts would like to eat dreams of the dead 
sweet-salted with sour taste of memory. 

White crow of truth perched on the mailbox post, 
with head side-tilted through psychiatry, 
inquires with glassy eyes about their grief 
till they explain they are their mirrored twins 
as soulmates sleeping in the claw-scraped book 
with names their children bury in their hearts. 

Dawn sun peels off cracked sorrow with contempt, 
too bright with raw alertness for their eyes, 
that butchers darkness with intense concern, 
revealing painful truths they mean to hide, 
still they hold hands, old spirits cracked by love, 
faithful lovers adjusted in one whole. 

Ashes in River Wind

Ashes in River Wind
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

The frail dented urn of gray lightweight tin 
appears to gleam with temporary light. 
My father lounges in back of my car 
with silent sorrow wedged behind the seat 
where he once scolded me for driving fast, 
his breath still rich with church wine and regret. 

He hated rivers. “Too slow to be clean,” 
he would growl, and glower past the steel bridge 
where bodies of the dead were tossed with prayers. 
I scatter his ashes on wrinkled shore 
as wind stirs up harsh cough of ash and grit, 
his judgment sticking in the folded sky. 

Gaunt boy throws stones that plunk in shallow pool 
with unapologetic splash of burdened facts 
that fools waste their time attempting to change, 
since what floats returns, but what sinks dissolves, 
yet still we throw our stones of failed advice 
as futile warnings pitched in widening dusk. 

I clutch his empty wallet in pale hands 
with tickets, bus schedules, list of passwords, 
expired drivers license with manic smirk, 
and notes from mother in flowery script, 
scraps of unspoken thoughts he tried to hide 
in ledger scribbled on the back of hope. 

I do not mind the minister is late, 
but when he calls him Robert, and not Cal, 
I chuckle with blind angels small as motes, 
then mouth Hail Mary with faith-thirsty lips. 
We read some psalm that weakly conjures faith 
because we like our gods with blistered skin. 

When evening folds its sleeves, I pour him out 
to release his ashes in river wind 
as shrill train horn cuts clouds with soft despair, 
indifferent to the liturgy of dust. 
With calm acceptance of the way things are 
I fill father-shaped absence with respect. 

I drive back home with silence on the dial 
down roads slick with thaw of time-soggy bark 
while his distorted voice in swirling fog 
offers no confession in evening rain 
that mixes his ashes in dark river flow 
so he can measure endless flow of time. 

The river takes what we are meant to lose 
when water lifts his name, then drags it down. 
I feel oak trees relearn their winter stance,  
unmoved, unburdened, lacking even grief. 
With return of the rain I almost hear 
his voice declare the end of honest truth. 

Statues In The Snow

Statues In The Snow
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

Stark morning glare exposes field of graves 
where marble figures lurk in frozen rows, 
mute faces, carved from stone, that eyeless gaze 
with hope to seek the cold indifferent sun 
as flakes descend to cloak their stony forms 
with comfortless shroud time cannot erode. 

Vibrant voices that echoed door-lined halls 
now flutter under weight of wintry breath 
since our laughter and cries in songs have ceased, 
replaced by whispers trapped in listless wind, 
yet stories of our lives linger in words 
etched deep in stone as our unspoken names. 

Young child with arms outstretched in playful glee 
leaps in unchanging flight of carefree joy 
beside her elders with unknowing smiles, 
their wisdom captured in enduring pose 
by sculptor hand that granted them long life 
with permanence in fleeting swirls of snow. 

Wild snowflakes dance, oblivious to time, 
then settle sparkling on each chiseled brow 
with fleeting touch on fate-eternal forms 
by tender grace of hard unyielding hope, 
so we embrace the transient and the fixed 
that converge beneath the pale wordless sky. 

When visitors approach with reverent awe 
to gaze at throng of statues in the snow, 
they reach out hands that pulse with curious life 
to caress ancient time-carved face of love 
that beams with passion they lived long ago, 
projecting warm emotions on cold stone. 

Dark shadows stretch across cold field of graves 
as eyeless sun bathes statues of dead souls 
in amber glow of fleeting memories 
that weaves tapestry on gray masks of stone, 
depicting animated scenes of hope 
while they stand vigil in the sunless night. 

When Earth revolves another day of change 
light gleams on snow that softens stony edge, 
transforming rigid lines to gentle curves 
on statues that stand unwaveringly proud 
as guardians of our secret memories 
that we record in truth-reflective tales. 

So as we pass still statues in the snow, 
whose silence mirrors hopes of our own lives, 
we ponder path of life our feet have mapped 
that intertwine our own sorrows and joys 
in frozen forms that teach us to endure 
so we find grace in swirls of wordless snow. 

Builder Of The Bridge

Builder Of The Bridge
© Surazeus
2025 05 08

Rain drenches seven rugged hills of Rome 
when thunderstorm rolls in volatile rage 
with lightning bolts Jove hurls at trembling Earth 
from Apennine Mountains to Alban Hills, 
flushing torrents of water between banks 
that cause the Tiber River to swell huge. 

Herding frightened villagers in large cave, 
where Lupa suckled lost twin sons of Mars, 
Numa Marcius binds large leather hide 
that blocks fierce winds to shelter them from harm, 
holding end tight with strong courageous hands 
as guard who protects his people with care. 

After fierce thunderstorm of divine rage 
blusters far over silver swirling sea, 
Numa organizes strong eager men 
to haul large logs on rafts across the stream 
where they ram pine trunks deep in river mud 
to erect foundation for the sturdy bridge. 

Building supportive bridge of sturdy logs 
to span the swift-flowing Albula River, 
where Alban King Tiberinus had drowned, 
Numa connects hostile communities 
to reconcile their bitter differences 
when he hosts feast on its center platform. 

Sedent nobly on throne in sheltering fane 
at center of the town-connecting bridge 
that spans the brightly-flashing Tiber River, 
Numa guards flow of traffic every day 
by checking every person with sharp eyes 
to ascertain intentions of their hearts. 

Parading in large wagon with four wheels, 
pulled by four white horses with long manes, 
Numa Pompilius, wise King of Rome, 
accompanied by nymph Egeria, 
arrives before his wooden vatic throne 
where Numa Marcius welcomes his friend. 

Placing new laurel wreath on his bowed head, 
Pompilius proclaims before large crowd 
that he appoints loyal Numa Marcius 
as Pontifex, bold Builder of the Bridge, 
with duties to maintain with honest care 
all roads and bridges that connect their towns. 

While Picus and Faunus chant prophecies, 
Pompilius places Wand of Mercurius 
in hand of Numa Marcius with pomp, 
who vows with speech before the reverent crowd 
to tend with care of the Star Messenger, 
ensuring roads and bridges are well kept. 

Junkyard Of Religious Faith

Junkyard Of Religious Faith
© Surazeus
2025 05 08

Too often I have to remind myself 
that non-organic objects have no soul 
because my empathetic mind projects 
sense of consciousness onto cars and things, 
imagining with glow of jovial glee 
that they are happy when I use them well. 

The wrecked car I drove for twenty-four years 
lurks now in twisted agony of pain 
among other wrecked cars in muddy field, 
so I almost cry with sad aching heart 
to see it broken and abandoned so, 
though I know well that no machine can feel. 

With sly grin of melancholy amusement 
I imagine angel soul of my car 
spreading white swan wings of divine faith, 
and gliding up into Realm of Ideas 
to drive eternal concept of the Road 
as eternal concept of the Sedan. 

When I throw away the old frying pan 
that I had used to cook three thousand meals 
of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and sausages, 
I pause one moment with sharp twinge of guilt 
to see it gaze at me with forlorn eyes 
like some abandoned puppy in the woods. 

Tangled in domestic quietude 
of melancholy sorrow for lost things, 
I decide that I will not change my life, 
nor learn some lesson from epiphany 
that I project emotions of my heart 
on inanimate objects with no minds. 

The moral values of social respect, 
which animate how I perform my role, 
remain intact despite intense attacks 
by fearful minions who seek to oppress 
my free spirit with bitter thought control 
by breaking my sense of reality. 

Because I employ science-based techniques 
to cultivate theories that describe truth, 
which I expand as I analyze facts, 
my mind can perceive what is real or not, 
so I quote formulas of verbal codes 
describing nature of reality. 

When people with no empathy attempt 
to assert control over how I live, 
I see them like the wrecked car of despair 
lurking in junkyard of religious faith, 
and turn away to leave them lost in fear 
since they will never follow light I bear. 

Library Of The Afterlife

Library Of The Afterlife
© Surazeus
2025 05 07

Because he is the last person to leave 
his once-thriving community of souls, 
Mike parks his car on deserted Main Street 
where ghosts who lived there more than eighty years 
walk up and down past stores of bleak decay, 
then he drives away in tears of wordless rain. 

Sailing glass ship of time across the sky, 
Mother Moon beams bright at her Daughter Sea 
who joyfully surges in tides of laughter 
to reach water arms with longing for love 
and bridge silent distance with eager hope, 
but sloshes mournfully against the shore. 

After Grandma Lois, wearing straw hat 
and striped pinafore, tends garden of herbs, 
she washes work-worn hands in sparkling water, 
then plays heart-warming hymns on wood piano 
with fingers that relate with graceful dance 
unspoken history of her loving heart. 

Cuddling on back porch of their country home, 
Archie and Lois gaze at black stormclouds, 
tense with startled respect for mindless nature 
in restless silence between thunderclaps 
that echo booms of tanks and falling bombs 
in fierce world war far east across the sea. 

In vast Library of the Afterlife, 
Ziphion records tales of human souls 
in endless Chronicle of Spinning Earth 
to stock forever-multiplying shelves 
with every unwritten book that exists 
in heart of every soul who ever lives. 

Awake in Heaven, as Realm of Ideas, 
where the Architect designs ideal forms 
with patterns that define existing things, 
we relive that day the clocks forgot time 
in ritual routine of dreamy desire 
to savor eternal now love creates. 

Designing blueprint of her broken heart, 
Tamar wanders alone down empty halls 
past sorrow-locked doors to shadowy rooms 
where nameless ghosts in fading photographs 
scream silently from angst-collapsing walls, 
till she stumbles into garden of stone angels. 

Emerging from starless cave of illusions, 
Nerthus sings the sad half-remembered tune 
of her childhood dancing in ring of stones 
through heart-breaking elegy of lost faith 
for extinct creatures who once roamed the Earth, 
mirrored by fleeting shapes of swirling clouds. 

Cyclic Law Of Heaven

Cyclic Law Of Heaven
© Surazeus
2025 05 07

When Devil Prophet of the flaming sea 
walks on Earth in wreaths of argentine flames, 
he finds Star Queen in the sycamore tree 
who chants spells for his acrobatic games 
while he teaches humans to love the world 
for lightning-cycle of the cosmic herald. 

White lilies bloom from corpses of dead gods 
in well-organized garden of blind ghosts 
where Devil Prophet in silver flames treads, 
drawn toward the Pomegranate Queen who boasts 
scarcity and surplus of fertile lands 
are managed and sold by her crafting hands. 

Slow wreckage of our aging bodies tears 
our formless souls with agony of faith, 
so we pray to Devil Prophet who cares 
to program digital clock of the wraith 
that powers pleasure and pain of our hearts 
since we navigate by our star-wound charts. 

Weird mystery of our bodies beaming souls 
deceives our minds that we live beyond death, 
returning to mortal plane to play roles 
assigned by Devil Prophet with fire breath, 
so every week we gather in the church 
to worship ghost who leaves us in the lurch. 

Therefore Cyclic Law of Heaven decrees 
age of prosperous peace through self-control 
is destroyed by chaotic swirl of keys 
till I exercise discipline with goals 
to assert authority of wise love 
as shepherd who guides people from above. 

First I must suffer harsh calamity 
that burns illusion of our noble state 
transforming selfishness to charity 
till flames of war consume my angry hate 
so I will rise reborn on Phoenix wings, 
empowered by spell of prophetic rings. 

When I ascend from labyrinth of Hell, 
transformed from Devil Prophet in blue flames, 
I will emerge as Odin from Dream Well 
with writhing serpent runes of sacred names 
to build from ruins of America 
new peaceful nation of Zarathia. 

Through Cyclic Law of Heaven in rebirth 
global spirit of Tellurian zeitgeist 
will forge strong United Nations of Earth 
through divine spirit of elected Christ 
to cleanse our world of greedy tyranny 
and implement global democracy. 

Geometry Of Electric Thought

Geometry Of Electric Thought
© Surazeus
2025 05 07

Through geometry of electric thought 
when I encounter shadow of my soul, 
trapped deep in architecture of weird truth, 
I exercise fate-intense discipline 
with insufficient punishment of faith 
to steer formalities of rancid hope. 

Unbidden rightness of the graceful curve, 
which tempers space with convex eye of time, 
refines light-burnished word of ratioed signs 
to bind our souls in matrix of World Mind 
which dreams weird symmetry of lonely hearts 
veiled by attention of the Beauty Gaze. 

To share sweet sacrament of holy light, 
encased in apple nurtured by despair, 
we chant new solemn vow that implements 
expressive play of interactive games 
by giving what our hands create from fear 
which noble angels reap with human bones. 

Through witness of the spirit we all share 
by world-enhancing songs of ocean waves 
we highlight anguish to escape our fears 
by walking somewhere else on signless roads 
to transform waste land of the bitter heart 
to flower-blustered paradise of faith. 

Despite the frantic flash in speed of light, 
which strings vast galaxies of pulsing worlds 
in coils of genes that spiral through our brains, 
we feel unconscious God Soul of the sun 
radiate from clumsy hunger of our bodies 
as we embrace with passion in the garden. 

For joys and sorrows of dramatic lives, 
which my ancestors lived before my birth, 
programs how I perform my fateless role 
defined by choices from strange memories 
that beam as guiding light on road of life, 
so I eat fruit and generate new life. 

Electric void of passion in my heart 
expands alacrity of honest hope 
so I may document travails of lust 
which I detect with measured sketch of truth 
through narrative lens designed by old faith 
to frame my quest as epic in intent. 

Based firm on selfless sacrifice of beauty, 
I gorge on fragments of lost history 
with latent neediness of angry lust 
till I evolve from state of privilege 
to hard-earned grace of comic nonchalance 
through geometry of electric thought.